My son is struggling with love. He's 15 years old and suffering deeply. I tried to get him to write poetry, but he wouldn't, so I wrote three poems about his situation. I'd love some feedback. I sort of like them. They seem to fit my son's suffering.
Lewis
Autumn Rain Storm
Outside, the rain tumbles down. The leaves
Wash away in its tribulations.
On the far side of the creek, woodchucks shiver
In dream dens – afraid of their homes being flooded
By the deep rain.
On the news, three houses float away on the river,
Disappearing in its raging, but,
Sitting beside my fireplace,
The falling, churning water seems so cozy.
The water tumbles -- submerging, rolling liquid. The rain’s
Great crushing noise is fearsome and powerful.
On the near side of the creek,
Rain is the wrinkled and dissonant tears of the aged,
The sky crying for the newly born,
The sadness of birth and death, the drum beat of the
Songs of death and terror – but in the end
It is just Rain.
Love is a Storm
I have been waiting for the calm in the storm, of
The hush in the pain and loneliness, when you sleep your
Wild dreams, one day closer to the cold graveyard of winter
While snow flakes drift down, circling the trees, in full view of indifferent
Ravens, preening their feathers, basking in the reds and oranges that
Hug the horizon. The sun has retired to its house in the West, the clouds
Appear to be burning; the vanishing tongues of flame, misty fog layers,
shredded pink
Clouds above the heavy glowing sky;
That peculiar smell of
Soon to be falling snow, the air pregnant with the potential of storm. Love
Is a storm waiting to be unleashed and a relentless quest for hate;
The clumsy and slow movements of the prey running out of options.
Ideas of Love
Our ideas of love
Slay us
In the blackness of night,
Like a procession of candles
In a moonless night
Or a single fire
On a moonless beach
Pretends to show us the Way
Instead we plunge into a dark void,
One candle in the darkness,
Perilous descent, along
A long sloping stone wall,
Searching for a name
For this place
That we called love
At the end is a massive silence,
A profound emptiness,
A circular darkness,
A cold and icy void
From which we must ascend
From which we must rescue ourselves
From which we must transform.
1 comment:
I wish someone would have told me the following when I was 15:
"Hey kid, it's not you. The current state of the this planet is out of balance. You're not crazy. You don't need pills. Or a team of doctors. Or even a girlfriend. You're fine."
I used to think something was wrong with me at that age. I used to think that only way a woman would have sex with me was if she had AIDS and was intentionally trying to infect me. I thought my only chance for meeting a girl was someone from a foreign country. A girl that didn't know how much of a loser I was in my culture. Looking back, I was right. I didn't like the superficial people I was surrounded by. I was OK. I was just out of place. Every time I left class in elementary school to use the restroom I would imagine the other kids in my class (teacher included) having a giant party while I was gone. Not necessarily to celebrate, but to finally kick-back and relax because they could stop acting. No longer did they have to be the extras in the movie narrative of my menial life.
I didn't realize back then that the Earth is sick. That the supposed leaders are sick ones. They told us that all the bad people are in jail. That the crazy people are locked up. That the old people are worthless and dying in communities away from their families. That college and individual achievement was the only path to true joy. That I couldn't follow my dreams because they weren't on their approved list. But if they are right, then as William Reich says: "...who is blame for all this misery?"
Growing up there was a building near my house with large sign that read "SELF STORAGE." I didn't understand. For the longest time I thought that it was a homeless shelter. A place to go where you store yourself. Of course, that sounds silly now. But, in retrospect, with how cold this culture is: my thoughts don't surprise me.
You're OK, kid. Keep yourself out of storage.
-A. Nanni Muss
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